


Junk Sick Blues

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, F/M, His Last Vow Spoilers, Memory Loss, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't owe Sherlock a single damned thing after this moment. Had, in fact, never owed him anything. But like the besotted fool she was, she went and made him promises in a spectacular fit of shared vulnerability. She would make good and move on. Only this time, she would do it with a clean slate. No more ties binding her to this mad, broken, genius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Remember to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know what you're thinking. Yes I have a bunch of unfinished chapters for my WIPs burning holes in my draft folder. But I'll just put this here with the rest of the fire. My take on an amnesia!lock fic. Someday I will have a fic for every trope in this fandom. I have such lofty goals.

She entered silently, like a one-woman funeral procession. Her large eyes were circled by dark shadows of insomnia, her hair up in the high, tight bun she wore whenever she was on the warpath, an extra layer of shapeless wool. She was armored, ready for a fight. Steadily, resolutely, she marched forward. Making it as far as the chair at his bedside before collapsing into it, perching her head in her hands. 

Molly spent long moments simply breathing slowly, hiding her face, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. There was the briefest of seconds when Sherlock began to suspect that she was crying, and for that brief second he indulged in the feeling that he was the horrible, selfish prat everyone accused him of being. In that instant, he allowed himself to feel guilt and disappointment in himself before shoving them deep deep down in the undercroft of his mind palace. Walling them in behind his ego, starving them, though they never seem to really die. Limply, he raised his arm, still attached to IV's and monitors reaching for her with a single shaking hand.

He dropped his hand back to his side when she raised her head with a resolved inhalation. Dry eyes narrowed to a laser focus on him, holding his gaze for an unsettling length of time before reaching into her large bag and pulled out her laptop.

"No." Sherlock rasped waving his hands in weakened emphasis . "Don't do this. That's not why I'm here."

Molly gave him a flat look, opening the computer on her lap. "Isn't it?"

"You know very well I was shot."

"And then you ran. Why is that, Sherlock? Your behavior lately..." Molly shook her head, "To say it's been erratic is an irresponsible understatement."

"It's for a case. I don't expect you to understand." Sherlock snapped defensively.

Molly barked a hollow laugh at him, " No, I don't suppose you do. But I'll tell you what I _do_ understand."

Sherlock sneered petulantly. "Oh? And what's that?"

"You're not in control of this, Sherlock. Every time we've been down this path you were sure you could control it, and you always spiral. Every time."

He couldn't look at her. If he did she would see in his eyes that he knew she was right. But what good does her being right do when it's too late to change it? He can't fix anything from where he is. He could only regulate and hope for a change in circumstances. She wouldn't understand. He didn't want her to. She would only be worried. _She's worried now_. Irrelevant. 

Bristling, he returned her laser-beam gaze with his own, quirking his brow haughtily, or as haughtily as could be managed with a breathing tube still in his nose. "Since we're on the subject of erratic behavior, what about yours, Doctor Hooper? Happily moved on to a relationship with that meat dagger dullard, engaged to be Mrs. Meat Dagger. And now you're crashing at Meena's while he packs his things and you're no longer on speaking terms? Seems a bit erratic from where I'm sitting." It was unfair, he knew it was. Especially considering he'd gone to certain efforts to complicate that part of her life (all parts of her life, if he was honest).

"This isn't about me." Molly answered with a clenched jaw, unwilling to take the bait. He would not throw her off her assignment with his rabbit-trailing if she had anything to say about it. And she did, quite a lot. Whole volumes, in fact. 

"HA!" Sherlock gave a weak hiccup of a laugh. "You may be able to convince the rest of them of that, but you can't con a con. So you're here to prove how important you are to me? Shall I call in the nurses? A production of this quality really shouldn't be wasted on little old me. Molly Hooper matters to Sherlock Holmes! Quickly! Someone stop the presses. The Daily Mail would pay a pretty penny for that sordid story, you're sitting on a gold mine."

"Shut the fuck up, you junkie bastard." Molly muttered, jaw set in anger as she jabbed at the keyboard of her laptop, nothing would get between her and her mission. Just this one obligation down and she could be free of him. Free forever. She didn't owe Sherlock a single damned thing after this moment. Had, in fact, never owed him anything. But like the besotted fool she was, she went and made him promises in a spectacular fit of shared vulnerability. She would make good and move on. Only this time, she would do it with a clean slate. No more ties binding her to this mad, broken, genius.

"I'm only here because I made a promise to this man." She replied, setting the laptop across his knees. "Remember him?" She gestured toward the screen. 

Sherlock's face crumpled, his nose and eyes stinging as a face that was both painfully familiar, and terribly alien looked back at him. His own face, eyes shut blissfully and slumping on the floor of Molly's kitchenette, propped up against the island counter that also served as her table. He felt his eyes fill with hot tears that were threatening to fall over his lashes when he turned his gaunt face toward the one person who mattered most to him. A final plea, "Don't. Please Molly. I-I will get-"

"I swore, Sherlock. You made me swear that day on my father's grave that I would show you this if you ever relapsed. Do you remember?" The serious tone of her voice could stop hearts. In fact, he wasn't altogether certain his hadn't. 

A shuttering exhalation and a final tearful "Please..." 

She steeled herself, forcing to turn a deaf ear to his desperate request. No easy feat for her as it went against every instinct in her body that urged her to comfort him, care for him. But that was not the kinder thing. Sherlock of all people should understand. Although she did not act out of spite, she felt very justified as she leaned over and pressed the spacebar, starting the video. 

**

The image blurred in and out of focus. Sherlock, stripped to his pants and leaning against the wall. He seems to be distantly following something with his eyes, tracking a shadow of someone moving behind the camera. "It's recording." She told him and he gave a weak nod that was really more of a slow blink. 

"It is..." He slurred a bit eyes looking off as if he were trying to conjure some information from an uncooperative brain. "9:22 PM, December twenty-second two thousand and five. And this..." He held up a tiny baggy filled with crystalline powder. "Is my last hit." He grinned proudly as Molly came into frame, smiling at him, sitting beside him on the floor and taking his hand. Never looking toward the camera, only at him.

"Molly has agreed to record this for posterity. Tomorrow morning I will be checking into a rehabilitation facility where I'll become... free... from this." He looked contemplatively at the tiny bag dangling between his fingers. The skin under his eyes was almost translucent, showing blue veins, there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead and his hair was a mop, falling over his eyes and his jaw was dotted with 3 days of stubble. Despite being nearly 10 years younger at the time, he looked as weathered and grey as a derelict building

"I'm so proud of you." The camera's microphone barely picked up Molly's hushed admission but the image of her squeezing his hand tighter and bringing it up toward her to kiss his knuckles, was crystal clear. He closed his eyes and sighed at the contact, leaning his forehead against hers , keeping her there with a hand snaked into the hair on the back of her head. 

"Thank you." He breathed back, kissing her tenderly.

Sherlock braved a glance toward Molly, huddled in the chair, her feet on the seat and arms wrapped around her knees. She was purposefully looking away, trying to block out what she was forcing him to watch. Tears springing up in the corners of her eyes, her nose bright red as she sniffed.

 Sherlock's breathing had become irregular and it felt like a large knot was trying to unravel itself in his chest. The Sherlock and Molly in the video continued to smile and kiss, despite one of them being weakened by a haze of withdrawal, making him more passive in their give and take, despite how fully engaged he was.

The next few moments were of Molly helping Sherlock lay his gear out one last time. "What should we do with it?" Sherlock asked her even as he began the process of melting the powder in the bowl of the metal spoon. 

"It's yours, Sherlock. You're the only one who can make that decision." She answered in her typical quietly supportive way. 

"Burn it." He said bluntly, after filling the syringe and dropping the spoon on the floor unceremoniously.  

"If that's what you want." Molly nodded, her smile never faltering, her eyes glittering with pride for him. Looking at him as if she was witnessing some feat of Herculean strength instead of watching a pathetic man grasping at the tattered fringes of his pitiful rope. "We'll do it when you come back. We'll go out to the country and have a proper bonfire." 

"Mmm" he hummed in agreement, smiling wistfully before growling in frustration. His hand had begun to shake too much for him to shoot up on his own, provided he was able to find one vein he hadn't already blown in the first place.

"Here, let me." She took the syringe from his hands, kneeling at his feet to inject it between his toes, after sterilizing the area with an alcohol swab. He sighed in relief as she pressed the plunger down, feeling the moment the drugs hit his system, muffling the painful din of his mind's constant noise. He barely registered as she got up to put his kit away, breaking the tip off of the syringe before disposing of it carefully. "How does it feel, knowing this is the last time?" her detached voice sounded out.

Sherlock froze, furrowing his brows, looking at the outstretched foot Molly had dosed him in. "Strange." He answered softly. "Part of me is terrified. I don't know- I don't know how to..  _be_ without the drugs. I have to learn how to exist without them and I don't know what that means. I hate not knowing. But a larger part of me is grateful." He continued. "Grateful to know that this is how it ends. Here, with you helping me get clean, rather than overdosing alone."

He heard her sniffling just out of frame, Sherlock in the video looking at her with concern, reaching toward her. "Molly, come here." Still sniffling, she steps in frame walking slowly until she's standing above him. 

He didn't wait for her to settle in beside him, he pulled her into his lap, binding her in his arms and kissing her deeply. Video Molly responds enthusiastically, whimpering against his mouth. He continues showering her with kisses mouthing over her neck and collarbone. Sherlock can hear that he's whispering to her in the video but he can't make out what's being said. Although he can make a pretty good guess based on her blush. She bit her lip and murmured something back to which video-Sherlock pouts childishly and says, "I'm not impaired, I promise." He grinned at her wolfishly, grazing his fingertips over her chest, between her breasts, down further to cup her sex, "I'm right in the sweet spot." She trembled on his lap. "As it is, it will be too long before I have you again. Please, Molly." 

Molly nodded, kissing him deeply. "Come on then." She said smiling, offering her hands, walking backward with him toward her bedroom. Sherlock smirked in the direction of the camera before turning it off. 

There is a brief second where the screen is black and then a click as the screen fills with his face. A bit more rustling and shaking and he has it perched somewhere on the counter he's leaning against. His eyes are a little wild and he seems a bit shaky. "It's Four..." He squints at something off camera as he scratches behind his head, "Forty-three AM, December 23rd, 2005. Molly is asleep." He ducks his head to hide a smug grin, clear red and purple bite marks are dotted over his neck and chest. "I'm starting to come down." He shuddered. "Ordinarily I would be working on finding my next fix. I want to, God I want to. It wakes me up in the middle of a dead sleep. This itching."

"Sherlock?" Her voice sounds from off-frame. "Are you alright? You promised you would wake me when you started to come down."

"Yes fine. Sorry. I just wanted to get some thoughts out before I lost them." He answered, still facing away from the camera.

"Alright, I'll be in the bath. You can join me, if you like." She said the last bit with a little sauciness in her voice. 

"Yes, I think that's just the thing right now." Sherlock tried to smile through his pain, which they both knew was the bone deep aching flu-like feeling that marked the start of a withdrawal. He'd been junk sick before, but never for long. He always went back to the drugs.

The groaning of pipes echoed throughout the video, and by extension, his hospital room. That's when video Sherlock turned back to the camera and began to speak. "She loves me." He shook his head. "I've been wracking my brain trying to understand why. But I've come to a decision." He sighed. "It doesn't matter why. It only matters that she doesn't stop. I'm only doing this-" He gestured at himself. "because she believes I can. She's right. Of course she's right. I can see it all unfolding in front of me like a map. Already I can deduce every step I will take to get there. I see her on the other side of this waiting for me. I can actually see a life for me without drugs, because I can see my life with her." Sherlock trembled violently. "This is the last time I'll do this. It has to be. If it's not, then it means I've lost Molly. And that can't be. That can't ever be. I need her." The next thing that can be seen is Sherlock leaning forward to turn off the camera and a flicker to black. 

When the screen flashes with activity again, they are sitting beside each other at her kitchen worktop. His body is practically convulsing and there is pain etched in every line of his face. Molly is behind him wrapping a blanket around him. He's freezing even though there is sweat standing out on his skin. His hand is shaking too much to bring his mug of tea to his lips and Molly takes it from him, holding it to his lips and tipping it back slowly. He takes a few strong gulps before Molly puts the mug back down on the worktop. He leans forward pressing his forehead into her shoulder, trembling. 

"It's 7:32 AM, December 23rd. His withdrawal has gotten worse, as soon as we can get him dressed and packed, the car will come round to pick us both up. I can only go with him as far as the admissions desk. But I'll get to visit on family days.  Once he's out of detox we will get to have daily phone calls." She presses a kiss to the top of his head while she threads her fingers in the curls at his nape, idly. He grips her shoulders in his large palms, his body shaking like it's trying to turn inside-out. He whines pitifully, muffling it into her skin. She hushes him like a baby, running her hands up and down his trembling back.

"It hurts." The microphone picks up his thin sob. But only just.

"I know, darling. But you're being so brave." She cradles him, rocking from side to side. 

He whispers something that sounds vaguely like "I think I'm going to be sick." Because she whispers "okay" before handing him a small empty bin and reaches to turn off the camera. 

"No, leave it." He says, face down 

Sherlock winced, watching himself wretch into the bin, while then-Molly gently patted his shoulders, handing him a fresh flannel and a glass of water when he was finished.

After another flash of black they were in the back of one of Mycroft's black sedans.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Molly asked the shivering man huddled against her in the back seat, fiddling with his phone.

"Phoning Mycroft." He answered, his voice hoarse and pained. 

"Why are you phoning your brother, darling?" she asked him gently, almost patronizingly.

"Because this is ridiculous! He should be able to get you into rehab with me. There's no reason-absolutely no reason-"

Molly shushed him, he was so weak and he couldn't waste energy having this tantrum. 

"Because this is something you have to do on your own. You can't depend on me for your recovery. You can do this. I trust you." She punctuated her statement with a kiss to the curls on his sweat matted crown.

"Why do you trust me, Molly?"

"Because you're my genius and I love you." There was a long silent moment before he meekly answered "I love you too." 

"It's a long drive, try to sleep." She guided his head down to her lap, brushing her fingers through his tangled curls.

From his hospital bed present-Sherlock cast a glance to Molly, still curled up in the chair, only now her head was pillowed against her folded arms.

"Molly I..."

"There's more." She interrupted him lifting her head just enough to nod toward the laptop. Following the next flash of black was him struggling against two large orderlies.  

"Get your fucking hands off me! MOLLY!"

Her sobs can be heard clearly as she's holding the camera. "Be brave!" She calls back. "I love you, be brave." 

But he continued to struggle against the orderlies as they managed to drag him behind the doors. There's a loud thud as the camera falls to the floor, Molly following it, dropping to her knees to cry in her hands like her heart was shattering. 

Looking at her now he wasn't certain it hadn't. 

The silence stretched out between them, he didn't know what to say. He hardly knew what to think, except that he could hardly believe what he'd just seen. Yet there it had been.

"Do you remember any of that?" She asked. Her voice low and hopeful.

There had been bits, tiny flashes that would come to him like he was remembering a dream. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut grasping for the wisps of a memory but it slipped through his fingertips like water.

"I don't know." He answered. Then after a beat his confusion caught up to him, "I'm trying Molly, sometimes so feel it and it's there, just outside my periphery. But when I turn to look, it disappears."

Molly nodded slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Right." She answered, lip trembling and tears spilling over her cheeks. "Right, well... Goodbye, Sherlock." Her words were stilted while she gathered up her laptop, snapping it shut and shoving it into her overlarge bag.

"Molly. Wait. Please, just wait. WAIT!" he called after her as she made it to the doorway.

"I'm done waiting, Sherlock. If you can't fit me back into that massive brain of yours, then I don't know if I'm meant to be there." She sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, hitching up the strap to her bag and walking out.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Baggage Carousel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change of plans mid-take off. The lifting of Sherlock's four minute exile in the wake of the Moriarty threat just as Molly has determined to start fresh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything after this chapter will be post-HLV.

He'd intentionally not given much thought to Molly's video. He'd always known there was some past connection between them that he'd lost when he was reconstructing his life after the procedure. But losing one's memory offered rather a unique perspective on one's own life. Looking at it objectively, avoiding romantic entanglements seemed the wiser option. He'd decided it was better for everyone involved to disappear from her life just as she had disappeared from his. 

Naturally, that could not remain the case. For, the woman who was once the most promising student in the pathology department had, as a matter of course, become one of the best and brightest in her field. It was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again. He thought he would be ready, but seeing her again took the wind out of him. He managed a frosty exterior regardless of how badly his arms burned to hold her. Curious, that. Must be one of those instinct things. It annoyed him immensely. He didn't like it when his transport decided to have a mind of it's own. 

Still, even though he could only make things worse for her he was too selfish to completely stay away. And maybe he did manipulate the fact of their prior association. Scratch that he definitely did, and with full knowledge of what it was doing to her.

Furthermore, he'd even gone out of his way to avoid unboxing all those scrambled memories of her, of them. Because any time he even came close, it came into sharper focus what an absolute bastard he'd been to her, and what was the point of that? Feeling guilty wouldn't change the fact that it happened.

And for the record, he did try to be less... heinous to her. It was difficult to find the line. The line between what was okay for him to ask of her and what was overstepping. Because there is a part of him, a real visceral part, that knows she would give him anything, everything, if he'd only ask. 

So many moments it was as if he'd never changed when he was alone with her. It frightened him, but not enough to dissuade him from her presence when he wanted it. He was, first and foremost, an addict.

He was certain she had to have at least suspected. Surely she couldn't have completely bought that "needing the space" bollocks when he wanted to share her bed, surreptitiously holding her against his body and inhaling the scent of her with his nose in the back of her neck. 

And now that he'd seen proof that sex with her was quite a lot more than merely hypothetical, he couldn't help but fantasize about her with more frequency and specificity. Sometimes his fantasies felt so real, so strangely specific, that he was unsure whether he was experiencing a memory. Or if it was nothing more than the conjurings of his depraved mind.

Odd how he'd made such an effort not to remember their life together and now it's all he can think about. Now that he's going to his death. Now that he'll never properly tell Molly Hooper goodbye.

It had seemed like such a mercy that he couldn't piece it back together before, now it was a menace. All he wanted at that moment is what the Sherlock shaking apart from withdrawal had. His Molly to soothe him and comfort him, to tell him she was proud and that she believed in him, helping him be brave for what was ahead. Since he couldn't have that in the flesh, he'd like to at least have it in memory, but it eluded him whenever he searched for it.

He'd become so good at pushing Molly to the back of his mind, now that he wanted her front and centre, she refused. There's a metaphor there, he's sure. 

He frowned at the fasten seatbelt light as it came on with a quiet ding. What was the point? He was going to die, why bother with things like seatbelts? Why concern himself with trivial matters like sobriety? He hadn't been clean a day since his last relapse.

At first he was telling himself that he couldn't afford the distraction of withdrawal, or because of the pain of his gunshot wound. He no longer required such delusions. He was using now because he didn't see a reason why he shouldn't.

He was already itching and as soon as the plane was in the air he would make his way to the lavatory for a scratch. He only had a few grams on him at the moment but he was certain whatever his assignment in Eastern Europe (he hadn't yet bothered to look at the folder containing his instructions), it would put in him touch with the right kind of low-lifes from whom he could score.

He choked down a lump of fear that was thickening in his throat as the plane began to make it's ascent, this was it. End of the line.

Until.

His mobile rings. He doesn't check the number he already knows it's Mycroft.

"I've only been gone four minutes!"

 

***

While closing up Mr. Galloway Molly debated the merits of submitting her resignation in person, versus via email. Even if she were to go to Stamford in person, she would still have to compose a mass email to the department. But if she resigned by email she would still have to face Stamford after dropping a bomb like that on him through email. It wasn't worth it to delay the inevitable, she decided eventually. After this autopsy she would talk to Dr. Stamford. She would simply thank him very much for the years of opportunities and encouragement in her career but it was simply time for something new.

Really, it wasn't anything major. He would be happy for her. Surely. She felt so damned pathetic. Mike had been a very fatherly presence in her life after her own father's passing, but their relationship had a very appropriate professional distance, even if it was especially warm and caring.

She wasn't sure why she was concerned about his approval over her choices. For whatever reason, she couldn't shake the feeling that she would have to look into that dear man's eyes and see disappointment. She had an overwhelming sense of dread, like waiting outside the headmaster's office at school, whenever she thought about telling him. 

He hadn't known, but always had an inkling about Molly and Sherlock. He'd watched her make a damned fool of herself for his sake too many times to count. And how this Moriarty business had given her such a fright. Would he pity her in her choice to leave? Or would he be relieved that she was finally developing a spine? Or would he assume that the decision was purely reactionary based on the Moriarty video?

She made her final notes and closed Mr. Galloway in the refrigerated drawer, before exiting the morgue and bumping directly into the man himself on her way out.

"Oh! Dr. Stamford-"

"Molly." Mike smiled. "May I see you in my office?"

Molly's heart thundered. Jesus, did he find out? Did Meena tell him? "Uhm... Now?"

"Yes. It's quite urgent." He insisted. 

"Oh, erm, yeah okay." She joined him for the short walk to his office, he ushered her inside where two armed men in suits stood, seemingly waiting for her. She sighed, recognizing Mycroft's flunkies when she saw them. Her stomach roiled, was the Moriarty threat more than a prank?

"Mike?..." Molly asked, breath quickening. 

"I'm sorry Molly. Mycroft sent word. You're to be taken in to protective custody until further notice." He explained, then taking her hand and patting it gently he added, "It's for the best, dear girl. Until they know what they're dealing with it's safer for you to go with them. You'll be placed on an administrative leave of absence until everything dies down, your job will still be here for you when it's all over."

It was the last line that caused tears to fill her eyes. A moment ago her biggest worry was telling him she was quitting. Now she was being ushered out of, not only her job, but her own life. 

"What about my things? My cat?" She asked the men in the suits. 

"Everything you require will be provided for you once you've arrived at the safehouse. Your cat is being cared for by a..." One of the men glanced at a file he was holding. "Dr. Meena Battacharyya. She's on your list of trusted friends and relations."

Molly nodded sharply. Of course, Meena had him. She hadn't fully moved back into her own flat since staying with Meena while Tom moved his things out. 

"If everything is in order, Miss, we must escort you out of the building now." 

Molly's lip trembled but she nodded resignedly. One agent walked ahead of her, while the other walked behind. She kept her head down as they walked her through the hospital corridors so she could avoid the pitying stares of her coworkers.

There had been rumors about her involvement with Moriarty, more rumors after Sherlock's fall,l. The rumor mill was positively overflowing once it became public that Sherlock was still alive.

Now that she was being walked out of the hospital mere hours after the airwaves were taken over by a dead man's face, she knew that more than a few of the people looking at her now would be lining their pockets with the profits from this juicy detail. 

"Do I at least get to know where I'm going?" She asked the men once she was ushered into the back of a car with blacked out windows. 

"Sorry Miss. That information is above our pay grade." The one driving answered. 

She sighed, slumping into the back of the seat. "Of course it is." She reached for her bag and took out her cell phone, she wanted to at least shoot Meena a quick text to let her know she was okay but  as she swiped the screen to compose the text the second agent took it from her hand. 

"Sorry, Miss. No telecommunications of any kind until we arrive at the air strip."

Air strip. So she was flying somewhere. She shifted uncomfortably in the silence of the car. "Can I get a drink or something? Aren't these things supposed to have a minibar?!" She snapped. Her nerves were frayed and since it didn't seem likely that there was a kettle in the back of this car she would, at least, like a drink to steady her nerves. 

The second agent shifted a panel revealing a row of decanters filled with warm colored liquids. 

"Brilliant." Molly said pouring a finger of whisky into a crystal lowball. "To...secrets." Molly toasted facetiously before draining the glass. 

 

 


	3. Shrapnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curtain closes on Molly and Sherlock. But it's only a cruel intermission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience while I got myself back in the writing head space. I hope this chapter makes up for some of it.

Mycroft made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat at the sight of his brother seated across from him in the black government car. "Compose yourself, brother mine." Mycroft's lip twitched up in poorly concealed repugnance of the waxy, pallid man who seemed to be melting into a puddle of ragged need, even as he watched. 

Sweat was standing on Sherlock's skin, already he was having difficulty hiding his trembling. He was clearly gasping for a few minutes alone to shoot up. Mycroft gave him a grave look, effectively communicating that the odds of such a thing occurring was tangential to the odds of a snow man's survival in Vesuvius. Reading his brother's unspoken dictate, Sherlock chose to redirect in his usual sophomoric way, "So sorry to cause you any stress, brother. I know it plays havoc on your diet."

His only response was to scoff and roll his eyes but made a mental note to talk to his nutritionist about increasing his B-vitamins, stress-eating had always been his Achilles heel. Observing his brother throughout his life had illustrated brilliantly that there were worse weaknesses than an unhealthy love of cake- Sherlock's blatant weakness for the little pathologist, chief among them.

Mycroft had known the day he shut both his brother and doctor Hooper into a car, not unlike the one they currently occupied, that it wouldn't be the last time he'd see his brother like this, boiling alive from the inside with withdrawal. So pale, he was nearly blue, lips matte and craggy as crepe paper, ridiculous curls clinging to his temples giving him the look of a drowned rodent. 

The little doctor was very well-intended but, for men like Sherlock, the road to hell was paved with such as these. That was clear from the moment Mycroft had first seen them together.

***

He'd summoned (alighted) Molly to Claridge's for another of his patented "Tread carefully" speeches that he'd delivered to every of Sherlock's associates since primary school. It had never failed to strike the adequate amount of fear in the recipient. Never until that day.

There would be one other notable exception after, a Dr. John Watson, former Captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

Molly smiled warmly, glancing down as she stirred milk into her tea with ritualistic serenity, sighing in an obscenely smitten fashion and replying, "You love him like mad, don't you?"

Before Mycroft could harrumph and express his disagreement, she gave another of her dreamy little sighs and said, "I do too."

He gazed at her, eyebrows knit together with the unfamiliar sensation of being... perplexed. Right away he knew he was not a fan of this feeling, not even a bit. 

"Oh!" She squeaked excitedly when her mobile jangled with a text alert. She flicked her eyes over it briefly, before standing up and scanning the panorama of the restaurant. Her eyes landed on her object of pursuit, grinning broadly and bouncing on her toes as she waved toward him in a most undignified fashion. 

Sherlock strode briskly toward their table for two, pausing midway to drag an unoccupied chair from a larger party's table toward them, and cramming it in the small remaining available space between Molly and Mycroft. All the while ignoring the gaping faces of the people who sat at the table, now occupied by one fewer chair. 

In all that time, not once had he taken his eyes off of Molly, he was smiling at her, taking her hand as he sat down. He pulled her toward him for a kiss that ran on rather longer than was polite. Then, _oh for God's sake_ , deepened to the point of being a display and drawing more unwanted attention from the other patrons.

Mycroft refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of showing an outward display of disgust. He merely folded his arms across his chest and turned his gaze away.

It finally ended with a wet sound and heavy breathing, when Mycroft braved to glance at them again once more they were still gazing at each other, hands in the hair of the other.

"Hello." Molly finally greeted breathily, wiping the corner of her lip delicately with her pinky and smiling at him. He chuckled answering her with a chuckle and a "Hello" of his own.

When it finally appeared as though Sherlock was content to use his lips for speaking Mycroft acknowledged him "Sherlock."

Sherlock's contented smile fell away as his eyes flicked toward his brother.

"Mycroft." Was his only acknowledgment as he raised his hand toward a passing waiter who paused beside him. 

"Sir?" 

"The lady would like the seared Mackerel and nicoise salad." He said smiling at Molly and squeezing her hand.

"I would?" Molly asked, lip curling upward in smile.

"Yes, of course you would. Since my brother was so kind as to bring you here during your lunch hour, its only appropriate he provide said lunch." He kissed her hand before turning a dark look of annoyance toward his brother. "And a bottle of the '88 Chateau Mouton Rothschild. Three glasses. We're celebrating." 

The waiter's widened and looked toward Mycroft for confirmation. Mycroft nodded sharply waving the waiter away.

"Celebrating? Should I be anticipating a happy announcement?" Mycroft asked, his tone flat as if he did not think such an announcement would be a happy thing at all. 

"That's the done thing, is it not? When a man's family meets his significant other?" Sherlock smiled smugly. 

Words escaped him in that moment to the degree that he nearly stammered. "Significant other?"

Sherlock gave the woman's tiny hand,  still encased in his large one, a squeeze. "Quite significant." Was his answer, eyes still on Molly. She colored and looked down with a smile playing at her lips.

The next hour or so was spent watching his younger brother practically hand-feeding the pathologist, pouring glass after glass for each of them at the table, although Mycroft didn't have any after his first. It was the middle of a working day, after all.

They kept on chatting, unconcerned with the presence of the British government, although Molly did make efforts to try and include him. These efforts were cut off by his younger brother's ordering of a second cake tray no one at the table wanted, or even had room for.

This strange dance of Sherlock and Molly falling deep into conversation, with Molly taking breaks to explain an inside joke to Mycroft or to ask his opinion on the topic of discussion and Sherlock redirecting her was interrupted by an alarm. 

The detective lifted his phone out of his pocket, looking at the alarm glumly. 

Molly only smiled, "It's okay. Your seat will still be here when you get back." She assured before giving him a peck on the cheek.

His smile was one of relief, even as he had begun to look at bit rough around the edges. He leaned forward to give her a lingering kiss.

"I just need a few minutes." He assured.

"Take your time." She answered warmly to which he responded with another brief kiss.

"Excuse me." He addressed Mycroft, smoothing down the plackets of his shirt as he stood.

Once it was clear Sherlock was well out of ear shot Mycroft saw an opportunity of a lull in conversation and the absence of his brother to fire his silver bullet.

"You know, of course, that the urgent business he is attending to now is actually..."

"Drugs." Molly answered, her eyes flicking downward toward her closed hands. "I know. I knew from the moment I met him. My brother... he-he was..." Her voiced trailed off in solemnity her large eyes catching his, transferring a message of kinship he did not care to receive.

Mycroft cleared his throat in discomfort at her response. That was supposed to be the Achilles heel, the carefully removed corner piece that would topple the Jenga tower.

"He's quitting." She added. "Not cold turkey or course, that would be..."

"Idiotic." Mycroft supplied.

She nodded. "He's gradually decreasing his usage. Thus the timer. We want to make sure his next hit comes before the come down, easier transition."

Mycroft was agog. Nothing has convinced his brother to reduce usage, let alone quit. Not numerous accidental overdoses, not Mummy's tearful begging or Dad's impassioned speeches. None of Mycroft's threats, backed by the full force and influence of the entire British government, had managed what this woman had.

While his mind spun on this particular conundrum, he felt a hand grasping his. When he met her gaze her eyes were wide and entreating. She was giving him that look again, that look that claimed to understand him and what he must... ugh... _feel_ , due to their shared association with both, Sherlock and addiction.

"It's important that we make this as easy for him as possible. I know that if he could just..." She inhaled sharply, fighting back an emotional reaction of some kind. Oh lord.

She exhaled, slightly more composed, but not by much. "He needs us to make this as easy as possible. Because, Mr. Holmes, it's going to be bad. Detox is-"

"I am aware it can be quite challenging." He said dismissively, brushing her hand away. 

Molly scoffed, she seemed amused by his phrasing. "It can be quite dangerous. If he doesn't do this right he could die. He needs support. He wants to do this, he just needs help."

He simply lifted an eyebrow. "And you think you're the one to provide it? Pardon me for saying so, Miss Hooper, but your own track record does not inspire confidence." He pinned her with a harsh gaze, one meant to push past her every fragile defense into the very core of her. He let her see in his eyes that he'd done his research, knew every private detail of her life. Her junkie brother getting sober while their father battled cancer, only to expire from a lethal dosage soon after the losing of that battle. The British government was certain that the nearing anniversaries of their loss was a factor in the intensity of her connection to Sherlock.

She withdrew her hand from the table, holding it to her chest and steadying herself, red and winded, as if she were recovering on stolen breath. 

Her relationship with his brother was merely a project borne out of cathartic sentiment. Once she'd worked out her unresolved feelings regarding the deaths of her father and brother, she would grow beyond the need of him.  Once he inevitably expired her optimism she would see the folly in her sunken investment and leave, taking all her well-intended support with her, crippling his brother in her wake. Sherlock had always been dangerously vulnerable to sentiment.

After a quiet sniff she lifted her tearful eyes toward him. "That's why I'm asking for your help. I'm on your side, Mr. Holmes. I'm not trying to fix him or turn him into something he's not. I know he's not... like other people." She sighed. "But I know he can do this."

Before Mycroft could say another word Molly was timidly glancing up at an approaching Sherlock, trying to swipe away the tears from her eyes inconspicuously before he arrived at the table.

She failed and a more composed Sherlock than before caught on immediately. 

"You're crying. What did he say?" He demanded, staring daggers at his brother.

"It's nothing, sweetheart." She sniffed then gave him a watery smile. "I have to get back to work. It was so lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes." She said meekly, offering her hand to shake. 

He took it answering her with a polite nod. "Likewise."

The way she'd said it, sounded like she meant it, even despite the underhanded circumstances under which their meeting occurred.

He recalls his younger brother's simmering anger as he accompanied the little doctor out.

In less than a week their grand plans for gradual decrease, as so many best laid plains, became unmanageable without outside help. prompting Molly to reach out to Mycroft for help getting Sherlock into a facility where he could be properly monitored. He had no way to predict how it all would fall apart so perfectly. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock's first visitor's day was approaching and anticipation rose inside Molly like a wave. The excitement of seeing him again, however, was significantly dulled by worry.

When they were separated at the rehabilitation center Sherlock had begun to break down, shouting and fighting with the orderlies to let him come back to her. Her last memory of him had been his with his chest pressed to the tiled floor by a large man in white, his face, purple-red with stress and fear poorly disguised as rage. When he was no longer able to fight due to restraint he began to shout at her, begging. _Don't leave me here, Molly, Please! Don't leave me here!_

It shattered her to stay away while he was held down and sedated but what else could she do? He had to get clean. She could no longer sit by and watch him killing himself. She loved him enough to let him suffer this so he could live.

It concerned her more than she was willing to admit that she hadn't yet been given an update on Sherlock's progress, but considered that it was possibly a good sign. He'd have contacted her already if something had gone wrong. 

Instead she focused on what she would wear.

Probably that awful cherry jumper he'd found, whilst jumping a back garden fence to getaway from a suspect-turned-pursuer. He saw it hanging on the laundry line and nearly laughed aloud. The garment practically screamed 'Molly'. He'd pulled it from the clothes pins it hung from and replaced it with a tenner. Estimating it was unlikely a such a thing could possibly be worth much more than ten quid.

He'd come to flat later that night mumbling about a jumper in his pocket. She thought he was making a euphemism but no, she nearly cried with laughter when she discovered he meant a literal jumper. And what a jumper! So far beyond ugly it circled right back to cute again. He'd asked her to try it on. Then he asked her to take everything else off.

She blushed at the memory. 

Sorted. So the cherry jumper over the green wrap dress he likes and her usual brown brogues. She didn't want to put too much effort in her look. Knowing him, he would probably appreciate it if she presented herself in her most familiar form. She would leave her hair down, though. She didn't usually, but knew he liked it when she wore it down. They had also agreed beforehand that she would wear a different perfume every visit so he could practice identifying them. 

Next agenda item was books, she'd promised to bring him some every visit to help him stay occupied. She scanned her bookshelves with her eyes considering each one carefully when her mobile rang.

She recognized the number immediately, having taken the precaution of memorizing it in case she needed to call and was separated from her mobile.

She answered immediately, "Hullo, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was breathless, nervous.

"Ms. Hooper." He acknowledged briefly before letting the conversation lapse into an uncomfortable pause. 

"I was just in the middle of choosing books for Sherlock. He must be so bored." She giggled nervously. He little out a little breath. Molly was unable to tell what the little huff meant, what motivation he drew from to make it. The man was inscrutable in person, much more so over the phone.

"I'm afraid plans have altered, Dr. Hooper. There will be no visitor's day today, or any day. Sherlock encountered a... difficulty in his recovery."

She gasped, was this it? Was this the call she'd been fearing since the moment she discovered Sherlock's drug abuse. "Oh God! Is he-?"

"He's fine." With those two brusque words he crushed the swell of fear that was beginning to choke at her, as easily as crushing an ant under his thumb. "There's been a complication. Tell me, Miss Hooper, how did my brother seem when you parted ways?"

Her mind flashed back to his face, how tears had begun to streak his cheeks as he reached for her, pleading. She blinked and shook the image away. "H-he was a bit... distraught. But he was already in so much pain and, pardon me for saying so Mr. Holmes, but the staff seemed to handle him far more roughly than what I would consider necessary."

She heard a thump and tinkling sound over the line as if someone had abruptly slammed a drink against a table. "Well we are past the point of concern for what you consider necessary." He snapped.

Molly stiffened. Outbursts like that from a man of his nature must be quite rare indeed. Quite rare and quite terrifying, she nearly dropped her phone. 

He sighed. Long, slow, and ragged at the end stirring Molly into attention. A genuine emotional response, finally something her empathy could latch on to. "Please forgive me, Miss Hooper. It has been a trying week."

"I understand." Molly murmured back prompting him to chuckle sardonically. 

"No you don't. If you did, this miserable duty would be over by now."

She swallowed hard, bracing herself for anything, everything. "Please." She whispered. "Please, Mycroft, just tell me." The familiar use of his first name, a risky gambit. All her previous attempts at an emotional appeal to the stone faced man had been crushed under heel like so much fool's gold.

"When the two of you parted, Sherlock's emotional state deteriorated further." He said like an accusation. "His fear gave to panic and he began seizing. The doctors were unable to make them stop through the usual medical means and the family was called upon to make a decision." As he spoke his voice became more flat, more distant, as if he were reading a prepared statement. "They recommended electroconvulsive therapy."

Molly went still, tears filling up her eyes. "Oh God!"

"He's fine but Ms. Hooper, Molly-" He corrected, Christ he was using her first name. She wasn't sure why, but it made her want to scream.

"He's seems to have suffered some _acute_ memory loss."

Her eyes pricked with tears, after all the worst case scenarios that had flooded her mind a bit of memory loss seemed like a mercy, a gift even. "That's all? Just some memory loss?" She could weep with relief.

"I'm afraid it's rather more complicated than that. He doesn't remember much of the past year. More specifically, that is to say, he does not remember-"

"Me." She finished, tears welling past her lashes and falling freely now. 

"Indeed. And given that his rather unique circumstances have afforded him a certain amount of... objectivity. It was discussed, and given the tenuous nature of his recovery now, we think it's best if you maintain your distance."

"We?" She repeated.  

"That is to say, Sherlock and I think it's best."

Anger swirled with sadness as a tiny bubble of a sob jumped from her throat. 

"I told him about you, showed him photos, he has a basic grasp of the timeline of events that lead up to the incident. Armed with that information he made the decision that a clean break is best, in light of the circumstances." Mycroft's voice was cool and detached as he tore her world asunder.

"I'm sure you did everything you could to help him see reason." Molly spat venomously.  

"I know what you must think, Ms. Hooper, but I did not-"

"No, of course you didn't." She cut him off. 

"You wanted him to get help. He has it now. You wanted him to get sober. He's sober now. If you wish him to remain that way you will maintain your distance, as he has requested." He emphasized that last part, the words burrowed into her chest pushing, pushing pushing down on her heart, stealing away her breath. 

As much as she hated it, part of her believed he was right. Sherlock was better off without her feelings to consider, at least now, while he was regaining his footing.

"I need to know we are in accord on this, Ms. Hooper."

She sniffed and nodded to herself before croaking out a reluctant. "Yes, I understand. Of course." She rung off without another word, no longer capable of such formalities. 

Molly Hooper slumped to the floor of her kitchen, in the same place she held Sherlock as he took his last hit of heroine, and wept herself dry. Life was supposed to carry on after this moment, but try as she might she could not see how.

Yet the sun rises and sets. Everything and everyone carries on as if there wasn't a crushing void walking around, masquerading as a person. Doing the work and living the life of a young doctor on track to become a histopathologist. 

The sharp ache dulls to a throb but never dies. When he returns to her lab, and ultimately her life, it opens fresh again. Thriving on the little jabs of hope he gives her in their still, silent moments together. Moments he looked at her and she thought for certain he could remember. But then he withdrew once more, gutting her each time. 

 _It's over._ She tells herself. _It's over. It's over._

She says it when she sees him in the lab. She says it when she watches him jump from Barts. She says it in the dark when his arm reaches across her body as they lay together in her bed. She says it when she walks out of his hospital room. She says it in the back of a black sedan taking her to God only knows where. 

And when she does, she holds the words close to her like a security blanket. She wraps them around her to keep her safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst and lots more to come. Hold on, kittens.


	4. Return/Withdrawal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst galore.

The days are long in the remote safe house Mycroft procured for their use. Minutes drag on and on while Sherlock's mind and body re-synchronize, after so long separated by the narcotizing buffer of chemicals. He never liked to make guesses when he had so little to go on, but gun to his head, he would have guessed they were somewhere near Switzerland. 

In the comfortable, well-appointed cottage Molly haunts his periphery, taking his vitals, fussing at him to eat this, drink that, and 'For God's sake, Sherlock, just sit down!' She rarely talks to him, except to ask him a baseline medical question, or notify him that it was time to eat/sleep/bathe/take medication. She also asks him how he feels, but with the detached interest of a doctor, lacking the dulcet tone of demanding concern she used to have before making everything all better again. 

'Tell me what's wrong.'

He can hear her mind humming noisily whenever she is near, which is always. Her brow wrinkles like she's working out a difficult equation, drifting away while carrying one of the dozens of menial tasks that caring for him requires.

He wishes she'd just say it; levy whatever accusations, demand answers. He's unsure of what answers he had to offer any more but he's certain he could come up with something if he had to. And as for the accusations? He'd happily cop to each one if it meant that this damnable silence would end.

Yes, the days of watching her stew in anger behind a carefully constructed wall of professionalism are long. 

But the nights are far longer. 

For in the night he catches the outline of her body in the dim light of the room they share. No point in separate rooms, given the number of times in the night she must awaken to care for him, clean him up. But she refuses his bed. Instead she had a cot moved into the room for her to doze on between his needy fits for one thing or other.

Her constant proximity makes his body scream. His brain pleading for the chemical release her body could provide. 

He feels a cretin that he's near-constantly erect. If she's bothered by it, she does not say. As a doctor she likely understands it to be a product of the withdrawal. 

She only touches him when she has to, for cleaning him, helping him to the loo, the tub, the kitchen. It's nothing intimate, or even sensual, but it's enough in his raw state. His nerves are alight, coming back online from the deadening effects of opiates, making every prod of her fingers feel like a caress. Every grip of her hands about his ribs, as she shuffles him through the cottage, feels as though she has him by the cock. 

It's a distant sight from what he wants (her warm body, yielding, forgiving) but it's enough. She leans into him, he sits on the edge of the bed while she props her shoulder against his shaking form. Her head is just below his nose and he allows himself a sharp inhale, an action that she could easily write off as a noise of pained surprise. He fills up his senses with her distinct Molly-ness as her arms go round his chest, linking behind him.

She expertly avoids the tenting of his pants between them, hauling him to his feet with her surprising strength. He no longer requires so much help leaving the bed, but this is one of the small intimacies she offers and he's in no position to refuse.

Her gentle touch electrifies him, his breaths turn to thirsty pants as she guides him through the cottage. He knows it's impending, he swallows a gulp of air as she pauses in the corridor to check that he's alright. One of her tiny hands moves to the small of his back to steady him while the other cups his face to check his pupils.  

The sensation these simple touches create set off a chain reaction inside him, his body tenses, his knees buckle and he slumps against her, coming painfully into his boxers with his panting face buried against the crook of her neck. Gripping her forcefully, he keeps her close while he shakes apart at the seams. She jumps with surprise at first but sighs and relaxes against him with reluctant understanding. 

He feels an impatient pat on his shoulders once the trembling ceases, getting the hint, he drops his arms from around her. She steps back from him quickly, as though he were alight or diseased. STI tests were one of the first things she'd performed when they'd arrived at the cottage-turned-clinic. She'd run the tests herself, seen the results with her own eyes, her recoil at his closeness comes from something else altogether. 

Her head bows and she pinches the top of her nose, inhaling slowly, breathing away her frustration. "Alright then." She announces with only about 30% annoyance in her voice. Sherlock would be impressed if he weren't standing with a puddle of cooling ejaculate sticking the fabric of his boxers to the underside of his bollocks. She loops her arm back behind him, offering to let him lean against her once more. 

"It's alright." She assures when his eyes redden, allowing her to take his weight on her tiny shoulders. "Shh, shh, it's alright." She hushes, soothes him, even as she half-carries him back to the bedroom they'd just left so as to strip him of the offending undergarments and clean him up.

Molly places him gently back on his bed, the purpose of moving him in the first place had been to strip his bedding, already soaked through with sweat and ejaculate from the several other times this very thing had happened. That task would have to be put on hold as getting him clean now took precedent. She bent forward, pulling the fabric down his legs without looking at him and turning away to add them to the already overfull laundry basket. 

He watches her exit the room only to return a moment later with a warm wet flannel. "I trust you can erm... take care of this yourself." She offers up the flannel turning her back to give him privacy while she hunts through his drawers for fresh clothes, things he has precious little of after days of this. 

He wipes his shame away, watching her bend forward to retrieve various articles from their various drawers, sighing when she came up empty. She glanced at her watch. "Damn!" She muttered to herself.

It was time for his dose of sublingual buprenorphine. The cross-section of Molly's inquiring scientific mind and personal experience with addicts had compelled her to keep up with the research. She was armed with her recommendation for the combination opioid agonist/opioid antagonist at the ready as soon as it had been called upon. As if she knew. As if she had always known that he would fail again. 

"For God's sake, Molly, I'll be fine." Molly shot him an irritated look that made him blanch. 

"Don't be stupid." she snapped before turning out of the room. He listened to her footfalls throughout the small house, mapping her route in his mind. He heard the thumb scan beep, unlocking the cabinet where his medicine was kept. An unnecessary precaution, as the medication only eases the symptoms of withdrawal without causing euphoria. The drug also blocked the opiate receptors in his brain, creating a ceiling effect. No amount of opiate would get him high 24 hours after taking it. The idea being that it gives the addict time to reconsider before relapsing. 

Another unnecessary precaution, even if he had the inclination to escape, escape to where? He was at some remote cottage in the alps as near as he could tell. They'd arrived by helicopter, for fuck's sake! 

His knees bounced anxiously, as Sherlock awaited her returning footsteps. She took longer than he estimated when he heard the echoes of her path took a detour. A door opened and the thrum of running water. 

Another moment and he could hear her walking toward him. She didn't avert her gaze as she approached him, sprawled nude on his filthy sheets.

"Open." She demanded, in futility. He was fully prepared to comply without her asking, craning his head forward, mouth open, tongue raised. 

She placed the medicated strip beneath his tongue, her finger lingering against his lip an iota longer than she expected, judging by the way her hand snatched back. She spun away from him, gathering the cleanest towel in the heap, before returning to his side to pull him to his feet once more.

 

* * *

 

"Really Molly, I'll be fine." He drawled, voice slow with fatigue, a side-effect of the suboxen. With the pain of withdrawal abated, for now, his body craved rest. He slumped against the tiled wall of the tub, his blinks slow and out of sync with each other.

"Shut up." She muttered, raising one long heavy arm to scrub at the skin beneath it. The bath was a necessity, he hadn't a single stitch clean enough to wear, his body and his bed as filthy as his laundry.

He would have to go nude anyway, so why not kill two birds? The trouble came when the bath coincided with his dosage time. He couldn't be left alone in a tub of water. In his state he could easily fall unconscious and drown. She would have to supervise, as well as do all the work of actually cleansing him while his clothes were washed.

It was torturously unfair of Mycroft to do this to her, she'd been told it was for her protection, but she knew the truth the moment she'd arrived to find the Watsons resolutely absent. They were taken to an actual safe house facility while she was trapped in this snake pit with a man she couldn't forget, although the same could not be said of him regarding her.

How easily it had been for her to be deleted from his life, and no desire to recover any of it. He claimed to have tried, but she'd seen him accomplish far greater feats, without less difficulty. She knew it had to be a lack of desire, and not ability, that kept his memories of them together out of his reach. 

That had been the thing that hurt the most.

She could take Sherlock not being in love with her anymore, she's an adult, she understands these things happen. She could take him not wanting to be with her anymore, again, these things happen. It's sad, but understandable. It was the fact that their memories, so treasured and precious to her, were regarded by him with the less concern than she had seen him give over a misplaced oyster card was what pained her. That, for all it concerned him, they had never happened. _She_ had never happened. 

"I did try." He murmured, head tilted against the back wall of the tub as she carefully poured water over his hair. 

She gave a laboured sigh. She'd nearly forgotten that Sherlock Holmes, even in this condition, was still Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, drama queen, and world class shit-stirrer.

"I did." He asserted while she poured shampoo into her palms. "I am..." He sighed while her fingers wove through his wet locks, working out the tangles. "Trying, that is. Still."

"Don't trouble yourself." Molly asserted indignantly. "Once this is over I don't imagine we will have any opportunity to address it again anyway."

"So you've decided then? You're taking Mycroft's offer?" There was something in his voice, a resignation. 

"For my own lab, grants, and research team?" Molly laughed hollowly, "Yeah. I'm taking his offer. I wouldn't be here otherwise. Tilt your head back." She began pouring water over his hairline, scrubbing out the soap with her fingers. 

Not taking the bait, even in the slightest, Sherlock waited for her to finish rinsing his hair before pressing on, "And you could be content with that? With the knowledge that your skills and intelligence would be appropriated for the use of the British government? Highly doubtful, doctor." He said accusingly, "Your discontent with the minor ethical breaches you've done on my behalf would be nothing when stacked against what would be expected of you in my brother's employ." His sharp words softened by his breathy voice, laden with exhaustion and the comfort of her hands in his hair. 

"My discontent with the things I've done on your behalf have very little to do with breaches of ethics." She said bitingly. 

Sherlock let out an annoyed grumble at this, "Hell, Molly! What do you expect me to do? How do you expect me to reciprocate? Shall I save your life in return?"

"I'm not a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere, Sherlock. I don't need to be rescued. I need to be respected. And when decisions that affect MY life are being made, I expect to have a say in them. For too long you've expected me to take a back seat in my own life and I'm tired of it. Can't you see that?" She pulled away from him, her stance open, beckoning for him to look and see, _really_ see her. "I need to take back control of what I'm doing and where I'm going, and I can't do that with you around. I've accepted that now. Time for you to do the same."

He was silent a moment, pondering as she reached for the bottle of conditioner. 

She heard movement and a splash of water, suddenly feeling a warm wet hand against her face caused her to snap back in alarm. He was cupping her face, tilting her by the chin to meet his eye line, holding her gaze in his for a long moment. 

His brows furrowed in resolve and he answered, "No."

She shook his hand away, and it fell weakly in his lap. "Too damn bad."

Apart from her instructions, they did not speak again. She pulled the plug, draining the water and helping him out of the tub with quite a great deal more effort than it took to get him in, he'd begun to nod, slipping in and out of consciousness while she toweled him dry. Afterward she wrapped him in a terry cloth dressing gown and got him settled on the sofa in the sitting room, propping pillows behind his head and tucking him into a decorative throw blanket. There was a bit of a struggle when she tucked the blanket around his arms, swaddling him like an infant. He didn't seem to want his arms settled beside him, waving away her efforts aimlessly, before drawing his arms around her, pulling her close. 

"This is what I wanted." He whispered against her shoulder, drawing her closer into his embrace. "On the plane." He continued, "All I could think about and I couldn't... couldn't remember... and you weren't there. You were always there before."

She shushed him, fighting back a dry sob, even her body refused to cry over this man again. She drew away from him, banding her arms around herself protectively.

"You won't come back. Why won't you come back?" he muttered pleadingly, his voice a quiet pained whine.

"You pushed me away too many times." She whispered, mainly to herself before turning away to busy herself with something (anything) else.  

 

* * *

 

 

"You pushed me away too many times." Mind palace Molly repeated mechanically over and over like a voicemail recording ('leave a message after the tone').

"How do I pull you back?" He asked desperately.

"You pushed me away too many times." Her expression was blank, her lips moving like an automaton.

"Come back. I'm here. Come back." He demanded. 

"You pushed me away too many times." this time her voice sounded further away, she is further away. He chases her. 

"Damn you, I said come back!"  He shouts, winded, running toward her even as she becomes smaller and smaller in his sight. 

He pursues her, single-minded, chasing her top speed through the winding corridors of his mind palace. He knows each turn. She's running herself into a corner, and he has every intention of trapping her there, keep her, make her stay. The closer he comes, the further she is away from him until she reaches the end. A wall at her back, he's winded, exhausted, falling upon her with open arms, pulling him into his chest. He will hold her here until she agrees to be captured. He can wait her out, he was sure of it. 

But instead of her body against his, he feels his own arms and a cold wall against his face, eyes wide as he watches her disappear through it. 

"You pushed me away too many times." her voice echoed in his head. 

He slams the sides of his fists against the wall, shouting like a beast made of rage. "MOOOOLLLLYYY!!!!" He beats against the barrier in futility, throwing his weight against it again and again. "MOLLY GET BACK HERE! I NEED YOU BACK HERE!" One final push of his shoulder against the wall has him sliding exhausted against the surface, landing in a seated position. 

He breathes heavily, regrouping before slamming the back of his head against the surface in frustration. Something falls, lands in his lap. He picks it up to examine it. 

A framed cross stitch, ones like his Nan used to make, elaborately stitched with sentimental phrases like "Home Sweet Home" decorated with birds and flowers.

This one was a ring of sunflowers and in the centre it read, "Too damn bad."

He threw it against the wall, watching as it shattered into powder. And then, as if someone had pressed 'reverse' on a remote control, it came back together, hanging itself neatly on the wall from which it had fallen. Perfectly even and untouched, as if it had never moved at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly working through all my WIPs. I won't keep you hanging. Stay tuned.


	5. Reduction of Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock's conversations become more productive as they both begin to get through each other's walls.

After their argument, Sherlock slept. He'd slept longer and deeper than he had since they arrived, still wrapped up in the dressing gown on the sofa where she left him. Every hour or so, she ducked her head to check that he was breathing and hadn't become ill.

Once satisfied he was well she turned back to the sitting room of the little cottage unsure of what to do with herself. She hugged her arms to herself, settling on the couch finally alone with her thoughts gave her a chance to feel regret for what she had said to Sherlock. Yes, he had correctly deduced Mycroft's offer and she did not lie about her strong consideration of it- even if she may have oversold her determination to take it.

He was right, she did not entirely relish the notion of being locked away in some Baskerville research facility brewing up horrors for potential future enemies of the crown. Of course he was right, but she held her bluff. It was a very attractive offer and well... those were a bit thin on the ground these days weren't they?

When he's awake all she can think about is how much she wishes she could get far away from him, far enough away she would never have to hear those accursed syllables that comprised the name Sherlock Holmes. While he slept she had to fight the urge to nestle in beside him with his head in her lap, twirling her fingers through his curls. When he sleeps she can almost remember what it was like before, when they wanted each other and there was only one surmountable obstacle in front of their happiness.

She had to stop doing that. It was gone and she wouldn't get it back no matter what Sherlock says about trying to recover their shared memories. Even if he could (and honestly how likely could that even be?) it didn't preclude the notion that remembering what they had would mean he'd want her back. When presented with the opportunity of erasing her from his life altogether, he took it without a single qualm.

When he began to stir, Molly came to his side, sitting across from him on the coffee table. A pained expression flitted across his face as he turned, readjusting into the cushions  beneath him. Overgrown curls fell over his eyes and before she could stop herself, Molly was acting on the impulse to push them off his forehead. 

She gasped when she felt her wrist grasped by the man before her, holding it in a gentle grip. His narrow eyes cracked open reluctantly. She watched as his wide pupils contracted as they adjusted to the ambient light of the room, then dilate once again as they take her in. 

"You're awake. I was just-" She was startled by how rapidly he shifted from unconsciousness to fully present.

"You can't go." He interrupted her in a rasping voice.

"Sherlock, don't." Molly faced away from him, she wasn't going through this with him again. 

"I can't ever let you go. I forgot you once. I could never live through that again, walking around with this open wound and not knowing why it hurts so badly to be separated from someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger."

"Why not?" Molly sniffled. "I would forget you if I could." She shook her wrist free from his hand to dab at her eyes with her sleeve.

"I don't believe you." His words were firm, yet his expression was pained and voice weak. As if the truth he could deduce (that she would never elect to forget him despite what she's saying out of anger) had no bearing whatsoever on how her statement made him feel. 

And here she was, projecting her own empathy. Again. Standing from the sofa, she rubbed her palms over the tops of her thighs nervously and gave a sigh. 

"What can I say, Sherlock? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you I'll stay? Better yet, I could just move into a morgue drawer and wait for you to pop round and bark your coffee order at me!"

He winced, eyes out of sync with one another. "You know I haven't done that for a while now." He paused when he saw her face darken with frustration at his statement then added, "Yet obviously, it hasn't been long enough for you to stop anticipating it. I am... sorry, Molly."

She grit her teeth. "Look where we are, Sherlock. It's not a problem that you need help. I don't mind helping you. I enjoy it. I mean no, that is, I don't enjoy you being like _this_ but..." She gestured to his huddled form budging up in the pillows propped behind him. "You knew what we were, what you meant to me." She shook her head. "No. What we meant to _each other_. You loved me. I know you did. That happened, and I'm not romanticizing things or-or remembering them wrong. I'm not the one who forgot, you are!"

Her shoulders shook as she lost the battle against the tears threatening to fall through her lashes. She crossed her arms over her chest, a small act of self comfort while she dipped her head, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"I know." He rasped, his voice burdened with guilt.

"And you just dropped back in my life without warning. Keeping me at arm's distance until you wanted something then, looking at me the way you did back when you... God!" A harsh sob rattled her. "And I would just..." She shook her head slowly, deliberately, defeated.

"Why did you come back?" Her question was a harsh whisper. "You don't even want me but you keep coming back. If it weren't for you, I would be married to Tom by now!"

He sneered so forcefully it was practically audible. "Please! You were all too grateful that I provided an excuse to be rid of him. It wasn't going to work and you were looking for a 'sign' that it was time to cut him loose. He was not up to par, Molly and you knew that even before I returned. I just gave you the perspective to see it."

"Oh fuck you, Sherlock!" She spat. "Just because a situation you meddled in didn't go to shit as completely as it could have, doesn't mean you get to count yourself as right. And I wasn't just talking about after you... fell. I meant why did you come back to Barts?" 

He inhaled, preparing to spout off the familiar practiced narrative. 

"And don't just go on about the quality of the hospital facilities, you know perfectly well there are plenty of excellent hospitals to choose from. Hell, even if you didn't know already that I was working there, and I don't believe you didn't, you could have avoided me. You could have left me alone. But you didn't. Why?" This time she raised her head to stare directly at him, accusing. 

He straightened his shoulders when it became clear she was expecting an answer.

"I was wrong. Alright? Happy now?" If he was intending for those words to sound venomous, the effect was significantly dulled by his curls in mad disarray, from the combination of air drying and awkward sleeping position. That's saying nothing of his drooping eyelids and slowed speech.

"I don't think you even know what you were wrong about." She sniffed, rubbing away her drying tears with the back of her hand. 

"Everything. Does it matter?" He jerked the blanket up over his shoulder, turning away from her and settling more deeply into the cushions. 

"Yes, It matters. For once I'd like for us to be on the same page. How did this all go so wrong?" She placed her hand on his elbow. He turned his head to glance at her from the corner of his eye.

He seemed to consider her question for a moment. "I should not have pushed you away. It was... cowardly. But can you understand? I awoke in a hospital knowing nothing of the previous year. It took me days to realize I was actually in rehab. I learned that my drug use had spiraled dangerously and I had come on my own recognizance to detox. I was awake for an entire week before Mycroft decided see me. He brought a file folder with pictures and letters, a short dossier on our relationship..."

"What did it say?"

He shook his head. "How is that relevant?"

"I just... I need to know what you saw in that file that made you decide to close the door on an entire year of your life."

 

***

"How serious is it?" Sherlock immediately asked after glancing at her photo pinned to the top of the file folder."

"When I asked, I believe you referred to her as 'quite significant'." Mycroft's poker face was impeccable. But it was still a poker face, and the fact he felt the need to use it at all was telling. 

"Those were my exact words?" Sherlock pressed, he ran the tips of his pressed together fingers beneath his chin. "I said the words 'quite significant'?"

There it was, a flick of the brow. Mycroft's tell. "Yes." He sighed. 

"Right. Well... Don't suppose I'll be dallying with that any longer. Have someone inform her that our association has ended."

"Just like that?" His older brother asked with a timbre of... was that judgment? How rich.

"Rather convenient, don't you think? This amnesia business makes it all less... messy."

"As long as you're certain." he countered breezily. 

"Of course I'm certain, why wouldn't I be certain?" Even at the time, Sherlock had to admit to himself that the haunted look in his brother's eyes gave him pause. But like the prat he was, another part of him was enjoying being the contrarian.

Mycroft seemed to catch on to that and merely shrug casually in response. "I've no idea." He turned his head, carrying his nose up in the air in his usual snobbish manner.

 

***

 

"It wasn't anything in the file. It was what Mycroft said." He murmured. 

Molly's fists clenched, she was anticipating that he'd tell her something she'd suspected for years. That Mycroft had attempted to influence his younger brother away from their budding relationship. 

"He told me what you meant to me. And... and it terrified me, Molly. I was just a junkie who couldn't even get to rehab on my own. Who was so distraught at being separated from my girlfriend that I'd had a seizure on the floor like some kind of wounded animal." His tone was bald disgust as he recounted his own vulnerability.

"That was _not_ your fault." Just like that, Molly was once again, leaping to defend him from his own self-degradation kneeling beside him. "You were just afraid and they were... they were so rough with you."

Her hands were on him, pressing into the small of his back and stroking along the length of his exposed arm. "I shouldn't have let them take you away. I shouldn't have even taken you there. You told me you didn't want to go, but I pushed because I was scared. Scared that I couldn't take care of you."

"You didn't trust me to tell you what I needed?" He questioned, his tone low but void of accusation. 

"I didn't trust myself to give it to you." She confessed, shamefully. 

He struggled to rise, shifting haphazardly to sit upright and face her directly. "Wherever would you get such a stupid idea?"

She shook her head and sniffled. "I couldn't help Derek."

"I am NOT your brother." He countered insistently. "I could take a mind to end it all right now and there would be nothing you could do to stop me, Molly. But I always reach out to you, and you always help me. I'm sorry about your brother. I'm sorry he didn't know how to tell you he needed you. But I am not him. And none of this is your fault."

She let herself openly cry falling against his chest causing him to let out a soft 'oof' and quiet chuckle of surprised joy at having Molly back where she belonged. He took no time to wrap his arms around her, sighing into her hair as she wept against him. 

When her sobs quieted he ventured to stroke a hand through her tresses. "The man I was before we met was not much different than the man that woke up in rehab. I couldn't fathom how I managed to get you at all. The odds were not favorable that I'd be able to manage such a thing a second time. But you're right. I couldn't stay away from you, Molly. I'm not sorry for that, even if a better man would be."

Her sniffling sobs gave way to quiet laughter. "Why am I not surprised?"

There was a pregnant pause that stretched out between them. His breathing had become so deep and even that Molly began to wonder whether he'd fallen asleep. She moved to sit up, his arms still around her, one hand tangled in her hair. 

He started as he felt her pull away, tightening his hold around her. 

"Come back." He murmured softly. "Don't go."

She sighed, easing against him more comfortably and speaking to him in a hushed, calming voice. "I'm here."

"Stay with me?" Sherlock asked earnestly, sighing contentedly when he felt her nod her affirmative against his shirt. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh I've been a bad updater I know. I'm sorry. Hope some feels make up for how angsty this fic has been


End file.
